


The Dark

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 14:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12278667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: "I'll sit with you," Tommy quickly says, coughing around "darling" that nearly slips out, uncontrolled. He squeezes the man's forearm, eyes still scanning through the minuscule print of the local newspaper he's occupied with.





	The Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】The Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12286317) by [psychomath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomath/pseuds/psychomath)



> * Unbetad, sorry.

_They ship Tommy back to his mama as soon as he can maintain a shaky upright position long enough and with morphine gnawing lazily on his nerve endings he glances at his blurry reflection in the car window and compliments himself on looking somewhat presentable._

_People on the platform stare at him like he is a ghost still, shock and pity and waving hands._

_He nearly goes into his usual bout of apologies for being alive and in such an inconvenient condition, but then he sees her on the other side of his platform as she collapses to her knees with no sound. Of all people, she is probably the first to bury him the second she fixes the collar of his coat and watches him march away into the jaws of the monster._

_Her son, the one who breaks his hand while picking apples, bleeds for a week after being punched in the nose and goes down with every infectious disease known to modern science, was never meant to survive. Motherly love is one thing, but in these dark times, you have to be pragmatic._

_Yet there he is, chewed up but undefeated, trying to lower himself down in front of her to help. Then some other people’s hands grab them, bringing them both back to their feet instead, and as soon as they finally get to the same eye level, they start to cry._

_Tommy spends a week in his childhood bed, and it hurts just the same, but now there is also the suffocating quiet of a small town around him, the one that doesn’t let him sleep at night. There are also the looks people give him, both of pity and surprise. Adversity sometimes, too, like Tommy is back instead of someone they were waiting for._

_After the week runs out, he leaves for London, this time for good._

* * 

Tommy steps down to the platform in a well-calculated move, digging the heel of his good leg in hard so when the bad one inevitably follows the delicate balance is maintained. 

There are soft fingers on his elbow still, steadying him, but small achievements deserve an encouragement as his surgeon used to say. 

Tommy's surgeon, the one who operates on him under the heavy fire, is nicknamed Butcher Tom for a reason and according to Alex, him being able to stand upright after that is a miracle of biblical proportions. So with all the self-contempt that fills his skull, Tommy is not opposed to praising himself for not keeling over on a rare occasion. 

Gibson follows him, looking around, as he lights his cigarette and waits for Tommy to lead the way. 

Tommy's mama calls him about the collapsed roof a week earlier, and he nearly trips over himself in attempt to prove himself useful in some, in any fucking way. 

He can’t really help by himself, and when Gibson wants to follow, he fights the idea at first. “It’s not your obligation, not your family,” he nearly says but catches the words before they leave his mouth. They don’t sound right, those words. Who else is Gibson’s family now? 

It's still pitch dark around them, the little town sleeping aside from a few lampposts that light the way invitingly like there is any merit to their hospitality. 

Tommy inhales the toxic stench of fumes from the departing train filling his nostrils along with the sweeter notes of jasmine and the sharper ones of Gibson's sweat. 

The later ones are calming; their sheets smell like that when they make love and afterward when Gibson leaves for work early Tommy can cocoon himself in them and bathe in those fleeting minutes of absolute safety before his own alarm goes off. 

He plucks the cigarette out of Gibson's mouth and takes a long drag.

"God, you're cute," he says instead of a kiss he really wants to give and starts dragging himself down the road into the town.

* * * 

_He offers Gibson a bath the evening he brings him home, and while the other man doesn't enthusiastically agree, he doesn't object either. So he leaves him be to give him some privacy and falls asleep, exhausted. When he wakes up in a few hours, he finds him still sitting in the cold water, motionless and pale._

_There is no way to get him out, not in a state Tommy's in, so he slides his hand slowly between Gibson's feet and pulls the plug out at least._

_"I'll just sit with you, is that all right?"_

_Tommy has already started lowering himself down the toilet seat -- and it's a multi-stage process -- so even if Gibson objects he can't abruptly get up and leave. There is no point in asking the question, but he only realizes it after he finally connects with the horizontal surface with a relieved sigh._

_"I'm not looking," he adds folding the towel on his knees and interlacing his trembling fingers atop of it. Minutes drag at the snail pace, and Tommy thinks maybe he should start talking -- Gibson seems to be responding well to the sound of his voice -- but then again, does he need to hear more stories about the war?_

_All Tommy's stories are about war. He hasn't made any new ones yet._

_"Just get up, please just get up..." his mind chants through the sound of the water going down the drain. If he is up Tommy can at least wrap him in a blanket and make him some tea._

_It's not like things automatically get better with tea, but it's always a good start._

_Tommy drifts, mind dissolving in a sleepy fog, so the movement catches him off guard and nearly throws off his fragile balance._

_He blinks furiously at the naked man in his peripheral vision, and as the hand stretches out to him, he's sure it is going for a towel. So he hands it out. Gibson grabs him by the wrist instead, hauling him to his feet._

_Standing up in less than a minute feels bloody wonderful. Tommy gasps, delighted, his weak smile fading immediately at the sight of Gibson's blue lips._

_His nails are blue, his nipples even -- and it can't be good. Tommy's hand jerks in panic, the towel sliding out, and Gibson can see his damaged palm fully now, right in front of his face._

_His eyebrows arch, eyes huge and suspiciously wet._

_"It doesn't hurt," Tommy says quickly, swallowing. The absence of it sometimes does; there is a fancy word for that syndrome that Tommy can't remember, something gothic and mysterious._

_Please don't feel sorry for me, just please, he thinks desperately. Everybody does, some of Alex's girlfriends cry at the mere sight of him. It makes Tommy want to howl and claw his eyes out to give them a good fucking reason to be._

_His mind then registers that Gibson's thumb is softly stroking his wrist. There is nothing more to it, just a slow slide of skin against skin. It can't make up for the missing chunks of meat from his hand, but Tommy is so touch-starved that just concentrating on the feeling makes him let out such an ugly pained sob he blushes at the sound of it, ears burning._

_Gibson doesn't drop his hand; he carefully lowers it to hang loosely against his side. He then follows Tommy to the bed, and while they don't touch anymore that night, the electric warmness buzzing between them makes him feel like they do._

* * 

The summer heat is merciless, but it slows Tommy’s thoughts, takes his mind off things. He takes all the ground work upon himself, dragging the planks around, handing them to Gibson who is on the roof getting fried by the murderous sun. 

He is delirious with pain and heat by noon, the uneven ground under his feet with its mounds and hollows hurts him so much more than the relatively even city streets he usually limps through. 

Then they sit out the hottest hours, his mama’s dinner served between them, and while the plates are the same he remembers from childhood — a wreath of blue flowers painted in the middle — he can’t finish his portion like he used to. 

Gibson moves the plate back each time Tommy attempts to push it away, silent, prompting him to take another few bites. It’s so much more than his rations in the trenches; he can’t fathom eating all of it at once. 

He gives it his best, though, grabbing a piece he likes better from Gibson's plate, too. 

In some other life, Tommy thinks, he could come here and introduce the man as something other than “a friend,” something closer to what he is to him. It's an insane little fantasy, but this one makes him smile a bit. 

His mama doesn’t ask questions, eyes flickering between the two of them. Tommy is the one doing all the talking, which is astonishing, really. He used to be as quiet as a mouse, just like her before the war, before all of this. 

Now his ability to monologue uninterrupted is damn near professional. Each of his words is the tiniest breadcrumb to coax Gibson out of his shell, and Tommy's been dispensing those crumbs enthusiastically with some impressive results. 

Gibson tells Alex to go fuck himself the week before for instance, and the three of them drink themselves silly to celebrate such a monumental occasion with Alex being the proudest of them all. 

“I’ve made you a bath to cool off,” his mama says to Gibson brushing the reddened skin of his forehead. 

Gibson swallows noisily at that, and while they don’t touch, Tommy can feel him freezing in place. 

"I'll sit with you," Tommy quickly says, coughing around "darling" that nearly slips out, uncontrolled. He squeezes the man's forearm, eyes still scanning through the minuscule print of the local newspaper he's occupied with. 

Gibson relaxes under his touch a little grabbing the towel with a grim determination and sitting with him Tommy does. 

He still occupies himself with the rapidly approaching autumn festival article, those fragments of his former peaceful life that read like they are in a foreign language now, so distant and strange. 

Gibson is a contrast of brownish tan lines, red sunburned skin with the blindingly white flesh of his arse and thighs and the dark, thick hair down his groin. 

Tommy can look at him now, as much as he wants to, so he does. 

The man submerges himself in the water up to his chin, hissing as it comes in contact with the sensitive skin, and sits there, motionless, like it is something he has to withstand, his white-knuckled fingers digging into the edges of the bath. 

He lets it soak in until Tommy's on the sports page -- which is admirable, bordering on a personal record -- and then he is up so abruptly the water sloshes all over the floor and Tommy's legs. 

Tommy watches the wet spots spread on the fabric to give the man a second to catch his breath and then wraps him in the towel, dabbing at his shoulders and back. 

He dries his hair then, there is no much use to it with the mane of it so thick, and Gibson drops his forehead to his shoulder obediently, as Tommy works his way through the scalp -- a caress and nothing more -- humming quietly. 

* * * 

His old room is locked, and there is a bed made for two in the next one. Tommy's heart drops so heavily he can swear he can hear it fall. 

"Get in, get yourself comfy," he can hear his voice saying distantly while the body is turning around, the folded sheets still tight against his chest. 

He wobbles down the stairs, measured steps echoing through the silent house, and by the time he is down his eyes are so wet he can't see where he is going. 

The muscle memory helps him navigate the corners, and then he just hovers above his mama's shoulder as she's sorting out the dishes, silent as a ghost. Pale as such, too. 

He understands Gibson's condition then, feeling all the words already formed in his brain, while he can't get out even the softest sound and his thoughts buzz and swarm in his head, loud and obnoxious. "Please," they hum. "He did nothing wrong. It's not his fault that I love him."

His mama turns around and places a plate with a piece of pie under the napkin upon the bedding in Tommy's hands. 

"Go get this to your boy," she says. "He barely eats at all."

Tommy blinks at her so furiously a few tears sip through and stick to his eyelashes, glittering. She wipes the fattest one that threatens to roll down the cheek and returns to her clattering dishes, clearly not expecting him to contribute anything to the conversation. 

So he leaves, and as he climbs up the stairs, he seasons Gibson's pie with all the tears his body can produce until his shocked face relaxes enough to slide into a small relieved smile.

* * 

It never gets this dark and quiet in London, the blackness so dense it’s impossible to see the palm right in front of one’s face until the sky starts to lighten. 

It wakes Tommy up in the middle of the night. He’s never been dead, but he has been dying once brushing his shoulder with the next stage of existence. Death felt like this — the absence of things rather than the presence of something new, no sounds, no lights. 

He sleeps with the curtains open wide now with the city on night watch protecting him with its soft buzz and gentle glow. 

There are tender fingers on Tommy’s thigh that trace patterns along his exposed skin, so careful he doesn’t notice their presence at first. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks Gibson who is spooned behind and there is so much sweat between them they are probably stuck chest to back. A squeeze of his hip is a good enough affirmative response, but Tommy can’t handle him both silent and unseen, so he punches the bedside lights on, the old bulb flickering as it gives in and pours rusty orange light over their bodies. 

Tommy twists his waist until his upper back is flat on the mattress, hand stroking through the other man’s curls lazily. 

“You sneaky bastard,” he purrs. Gibson takes it as a compliment, his hand framing Tommy’s face so he can keep him in place and kiss him, teasingly at first, retreating before Tommy can peck him back. Then the tongue pushes in deep and the wet sound of their mouths sliding against each other fills up the room.

“She’s two doors down,” Tommy gasps, retreating for air. “And you’ll be gentle with me, will you?”

Gibson winks making him blush, his belly suddenly on fire. He loves the man like this when it’s just him. Not the salt-drenched trauma and pain that tastes like seaweed and blood, but the person underneath, kind and fucking playful and a bit shy.

When Gibson smiles at him for the first time, it’s a terrifying sight that makes his heart explode. His entire face changes then, unrecognizable and strange, corners of his mouth twitching as the muscles of his face fight the unfamiliar stretch. But weak as it is, it reaches his eyes, and that is enough. 

He traces the corners of the smile now, and it’s sure, stable. It’s only for him, too. He touches the outline again before kissing it off and shutting himself up to contain the gasps as the saliva-drenched fingers rub between his cheeks, soft but steady. 

It feels a little rough still, but Tommy has nothing else on him to ease the way. He expected them to sleep in separate rooms, after all. So Gibson makes up for it by working him open at an agonizingly slow pace, his fingers dragging sweetly along Tommy’s walls, in and out, his other hand stuck between the back of Tommy’s head and the pillow, and he’s caressing his scalp as he keeps kissing him. 

"I don't know how long I can lie like this," Tommy tells him honestly. He is not opposed to the idea to spend the next century concentrating on how the slow drag of Gibson's fingers feels, but he has all of his limbs to take into the account. 

Gibson spits on his hand, coating himself some more as he pulls out. He looks sheepish about it almost, like Tommy needs or even deserves being pampered instead of this spontaneous act they are engaged in. 

“It’s okay,” Tommy whispers against his mouth. “Just be gentle.” 

And Gibson is. He takes Tommy by hipbones and slowly pulls him back onto himself. He barely moves afterward but it’s enough for them both somehow. The room is so hot their skin sticks together everywhere they touch, sweat pooling in every dip, sheets soaked with it. 

Tommy clenches down on him to make up for the lack of movement until they are resorted to gasping in each other’s faces, foreheads pressed together, and Gibson’s hand slides down Tommy’s stomach where it’s caught awkwardly by Tommy’s faulty fingers and cradled softly against his lower belly. 

“Not yet,” Tommy gasps. “It’s good. It’s so good like this.”

There is a sharp jerk of Gibson’s hips against him, the other man untangling their fingers and pushing Tommy’s good leg up to his chest. Now he is deep, their bodies pressed together so tightly. Tommy can feel him coming like this, slicking him inside hotly, hotter than the summer air around them. 

Tommy kisses the angry sunburned skin of the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheekbones, so red it’s going to flake and peel in a day or two, and whispers the words of love against it hoping that even they drown in Gibson’s gasping he’ll feel them spelled up by Tommy’s lips against his skin. 

Gibson hears, he tears the echoing confession out of his throat, coughing as Tommy shushes him with the careful fingers on his lips. 

“I know, love,” he whispers, kissing the bobbing throat as Gibson tries to swallow around the sudden dryness. 

Gibson turns him fully on his back now, their skin coming apart with a soft hiss, licks his palm and circles it around Tommy’s cock. His other hand dips between Tommy’s cheeks, fingers pressing inside, just barely breaching him as the younger man buckles helplessly.

Tommy comes to it as the soft fingers massage through the deeply scarred flesh of his upper thigh, the rough dead skin where the splinter hit until the muscles are relaxed enough for it to straighten completely. 

Then the flat palm deeps under his arsecheek, the other pressing against the sharp jut of his hipbone, and he does the same with the hip, bringing the feeling back into it as he goes. 

Tommy sighs blissfully, flexing his toes and enjoying the brief moment when the pain he feels is a right kind of pain. 

They change the sheets to the ones Tommy has brought for himself earlier and fall asleep with Gibson’s head on his chest, Tommy’s fingers playing with his hair until the soft tremors in the very tips of his fingers subside. 

* * *

Tommy wakes up again in the early hours of the morning when the air has cooled down a bit for his skin to dry at least. It’s nearly five by the feeling of it, the gradient of the sky getting more and more contrast.

He can see Gibson leaning against the window frame, already half-dressed, his flat dark silhouette slowly gaining depth as his eyes adjust. 

He reaches his arms to the man, blindly almost, and Gibson comes, he always does. Tommy crawls to the edge of the bed to meet him, sitting, and as soon as he is close enough, he wraps both hands around the midsection, digging his face into the man’s soft stomach. He inhales the scent of him as the warm flesh under rises and falls, the hand at the back of his head, stroking. 

Tommy leans back then, rubbing the man’s sides, and presses his mouth to the largest scar just under his ribs, angry and broad, still red in the middle where it refuses to heal.

Gibson gasps at that, the hand in his hair tightening as his heartbeat quickens, but stays in place. In the semi-darkness, under his burned skin there is no telling if he is blushing or not. 

Tommy gives one last kiss to the center of his chest, right where his heart beats loudly, reassuringly stable, and moves to get up.

He won't be of any help with the remaining work Gibson has to do, but he can at least wash his back and fix him breakfast, he figures.

Gibson catches both of his hands, kissing each of the open palms, and shakes his head. Tommy snorts at that and tries to fight against the grip, but he has no proper leverage or force, if he is honest, to win. He still gives a few more good yanks to prove he is serious about leaving the bed until Gibson says: “Sleep.”

Tommy blinks at him. It’s a small word, so it comes out almost fluidly, even though Gibson’s throat is probably dry from the smoke, it just does, filling the space between them like a magic spell, weighing on his eyelids heavily. 

“You’re hurt. Sleep.” 

He drops his hands immediately, all the fight leaving him. Gibson looks sure, not a trace of self-consciousness in his eyes, and it’s honestly a sight to remember. 

“One more hour,” Tommy grumbles, wincing, as he lowers himself back onto the pillows. It feels good against his tense back; there is no denying that. Gibson nods, satisfied, giving his forehead a quick kiss. 

Tommy just scowls back at him, keeps his mouth tight and crooked as Gibson leaves the room, closing the door quietly. It’s only after he is alone he digs his face into the pillow with a sigh, the broad smile pulling at his cheeks.


End file.
